


Doubt

by Fumm95



Series: Annaliese Cousland [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Hate mail, Hurt/Comfort, anon hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4084732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fumm95/pseuds/Fumm95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Queen Annaliese discovers how painful anonymously sent harsh words can be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doubt

It had started off innocuously: just a short note in the large pile of correspondence Queen Annaliese found waiting for her that morning, an angry response to her recent support for the mages. It seemed fair for the individual to express their opinion, however rudely, and she simply composed another report justifying her actions and moved onward, forgetting about the harsh words in the piles of invitations and other notices necessary to keep Ferelden running smoothly.

For a time, all remained calm… until another message appeared, equally anonymously. For several moments, she stared at it, quietly absorbing its accusation, its brutal questioning over her recent decisions. A gentle knock on the door announced her husband’s arrival and she quietly tossed the parchment into the fireplace. Alistair found her watching the flames consume the hateful comment and she forced a smile at the concerned look on his face. “It is nothing,” she reassured him. “Simply a moment of pensivity.” To her relief, he let the matter drop, drawing her attention away to his recent meeting with the visiting dignitaries from Orlais, and she allowed herself to be distracted, at least for a while.

As the weeks passed, the missives only grew in quantity and cruelty, questioning her devotion to Ferelden, her ability to rule, her love for her king… In spite of her determination to ignore them, she could feel them preying on secret fears, could hear them echoing in her mind with every disapproving look from her advisers, every calculating look from Eamon regarding her still childless state. Every glance at her mirror, revealing a new gauntness, paleness, to her complexion, reflecting restless nights of stress. Every worried look from Alistair, sending a fissure of fear into her heart.

At times, she responded to the notes calmly, drawing upon all of her training from her mother, a lifetime ago, to compose civilized, pacifying announcements. After all, she was a Cousland. “Grace under adversity; courage above fear,” as Teyrna Eleanor would always say, and Annaliese could not suppress the pang at the gentle, wise voice echoing in her head, which she would never hear again. Her mother would know what to do, how to command the respect of her people.

Blinking back traitorous tears, she did not hear the knock on her door, nor the quiet voice calling her name. Only when his hands cradled her face, thumbs brushing away stray tears as he tilted her head to look at him, did she realize that Alistair had entered, and found her in such a state. She averted her eyes as he studied her and the letters scattered before them, not wanting to see his disappointment at the weakness in her, in Ferelden’s - and his - Queen.

When he spoke, his tone was laced with anger. “This is unacceptable! How long?” he asked, voice strained with the effort to remain calm.

Annaliese swallowed around the lump in her throat and said nothing, not trusting her voice to remain steady enough to speak. Maker, what he must think of her…

“Annaliese,” he breathed after a pause, and the tenderness, the _pain_ , in his tone was enough to draw her gaze back to him. His voice was as gentle as his expression when he whispered, “Don’t listen to them. I love you. Maker, I don’t know what I would do without you.” As gentle as the hands that pulled her in as her control broke and she shook with sobs repressed for days, weeks.

“They’re all wrong,” he said fiercely, wrapping his arms around her, and she returned his embrace warmly, taking solace in the comfort of his presence, in the love in his voice as he added quietly, “You are perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as an angry response to people receiving anon hate on tumblr. The alternative title is "STOP SENDING HATE MAIL DAMMIT."


End file.
